


Through the Clouds

by Mazarin221b



Series: Through The Clouds [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Antique bathtubs, Bees, First Time, M/M, Romance, Sussex, questionable home improvement, retirement fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-05 06:00:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock takes a remarkably early retirement at 47, and convinces John that a change of pace would do them both good. They buy an old cottage on the South Downs, and exchange their nonstop life in Baker Street for quiet contemplation, bee studies, and book writing.</p><p>They might go completely insane, but sometimes it takes stepping outside of the life you're living to find the life you want.</p><p>  <i>Sherlock takes one last look out to the horizon, mouth downturned and brow furrowed, before seeming to shake himself and catching up to John with a few long-legged strides. John turns back  toward the path cut into the cliffs, climbing steadily toward the rolling downs already green and lush in the weak April warmth. </i></p><p>  <i>They reach the top and Sherlock strikes toward the west, back to where their hired Land Rover sits a mile  away in a public carpark. John falls into step beside him and takes a deep breath.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>“I expected a case,” he starts. “A bit chilly for a walk, really, so. D’you mind telling me what we’re doing out here?”</i><br/>Sherlock doesn’t even pause, simply tucks his head down against the wind and continues walking. </p><p>  <i>“I’m retiring,” he says simply.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to Mydwynter, who encouraged and gave me the gift of his excellent writer-brain as beta. And also Lacuna, who jumped in last minute and saved this from the axe.

The early spring wind whips cold and damp off the sea, and John wishes he’d brought a warmer coat. Or at least a pair of gloves.

He turns to watch as Sherlock, a dozen paces behind him, stoops to pick up a stone from the beach and throw it in a smooth arc into the waves. The grey at his temples is much more noticeable in this light, stark against the remaining dark curls. This stretch of melancholy is a bit worrisome—when he’d asked John to come down to Sussex with him John fully expected a case to occupy the entire conversation, but Sherlock had been silent the entire drive, brow furrowed and eyes pensive.

“We should probably go back up,” John says, and tucks his hands under his armpits. “The tide’s coming in and frankly, I’m bloody freezing.”

Sherlock takes one last look out to the horizon, mouth downturned and brow furrowed, before seeming to shake himself and catching up to John with a few long-legged strides. John turns back  toward the path cut into the cliffs, climbing steadily toward the rolling downs already green and lush in the weak April warmth.

They reach the top and Sherlock strikes toward the west, back to where their hired Land Rover sits a mile  away in a public carpark. John falls into step beside him and takes a deep breath.

“I expected a case,” he starts. “A bit chilly for a walk, really, so. D’you mind telling me what we’re doing out here?”

Sherlock doesn’t even pause, simply tucks his head down against the wind and continues walking.

“I’m retiring,” he says simply.

John’s floored. He stops abruptly and stares, mind scrambling to catch up with what must be the most unexpected sentence he’d ever heard Sherlock utter. “Retiring? As in, not taking cases? You must be joking.”

“Of course I’m not.”

“Yes you are. You’d lose your mind without the work. Not two weeks ago you experimented with paint strippers on the living room table, you were so bored.”

Sherlock chuckles and starts walking again, angling toward a large stone cottage in the distance. John follows, trying to keep up, literally and metaphorically.

“I’ve spent the last twenty years chasing down cases, John. Twenty years of trying to settle my mind on problems that last, what, a week at the most? Two at the outside? When was the last time I honestly thought about any one problem for more than a few days at a time?”

“Well, chalk it up to your brilliance, then. I would think your clients would be thankful for quick solutions to their problems.” John frowns. This isn’t like him, none of this is, and even fifteen years knowing the man isn’t shedding any light on what he’s driving at.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock says. “I can only hope that it was worth it. For them and for me.” John knows better than to think that’s all he’ll have to say on the matter, but perhaps he’s not quite as serious as it seems. John walks and tries to calm the small flutter of panic in his chest. If Sherlock is serious, if he really retires, what will become of all of those hopeless cases? And, John realises, what will become of him? Doesn’t Sherlock know that Sherlock retiring means John is retiring, too? What will he do with all of that time? Will Sherlock want to move on, leave him behind?

“I’m tired, John,” Sherlock continues. “I’m ready to settle my mind on one problem. Or perhaps two, I’ve not yet decided. I’d like to start my book, my magnum opus on detection. Perhaps also study bees.”

“Bees?” John asks, his mind grappling for a handhold in this mad conversation. “What the hell for? And I can understand being tired; we ran after McMurdo for at least a week last month and I’m sure we didn’t sleep more than a day or two. Let’s face it, neither of us are getting any younger.”

“Precisely my point. Perhaps it’s just my body telling me it’s time to slow down, or perhaps I truly am bored. But either way, I’m certain I’m ready for a change in circumstances.”

John tries to reconcile the manic, insistent, constantly busy detective with the life of quiet Sherlock is proposing. He can’t manage it. It seems so fundamentally different than the Sherlock he knows—well, he thinks he knows.

But is it really? He can see the appeal of a single, long-term project to a mind like Sherlock’s, the far reaching sort of planning and restful organisation that it would require. To find a hobby that he enjoys that would also use his scientific skills in a different setting, a project that wouldn’t ever truly be finished. Yes, he can see that. He just doesn’t know how long that sort of satisfaction could possibly last, when Sherlock still can barely stand to be without a case for more than a few days.

They’re getting closer to the cottage as they walk, and John can see the details start to emerge: an ancient, two-storey grey stone building with a slate roof;  large, square-paned front windows on either side of the front door and a low stone wall curving away from one side of the house and down toward a large, whitewashed outbuilding. As John turns, he can see the house is on a small rise and looks across an open sweep of the Downs toward the sea, to the south and west. A “For Sale” sign is planted in the front garden.

“Oh, that’s a nice looking spot,” John says, walking up to the window to look into the empty front room. Most of the room is in shadow, but it looks big, all high beamed ceilings and stone floors and warm, honey-toned walls.

“Do you think so? Let’s take a look.” Sherlock steps up to the front door and pulls out his lockpicks, dangles them in John’s face and raises his eyebrows mischievously. Despite the fact there isn’t a soul around for a mile in any direction, John tuts at his insatiable curiosity and looks around for any observers. A few moments work and they’re in, the door creaking in the cold wind and bringing a swirl of dry leaves into the front room.

“What on earth are you up to?” John whispers, and Sherlock only smiles, catches his hands behind his back and walks into the room to have a look at the massive fireplace on the wall to the right of the door.

John shrugs and figures he might as well satisfy his own curiosity while he’s here.  The room he’s in is the main great room, with the bottom of a large staircase sweeping gracefully into the space to the left. John pokes at the old-style wall switch next to the door, hoping to get a bit more light than the fading sun can give, but the electricity must be turned off.  So he makes his way through the dim, filtered gloom toward the bright doorway next to the stairs that leads to a large dining room. The setting sun makes the oak paneling glow and the wall sconces sparkle through the dust, almost far too grand for such a lonely house, but lovely. The people who lived here must have had some aspirations, John thinks, and smiles.  John continues to wander, feeling the strength of the stone floors under his feet, the walls that have stood probably two hundred years or more, and finds himself skirting through the butler’s pantry, still intact with glass-fronted cabinets, to the kitchen, where he stops stock still.

“Sherlock,” he calls, when he stops giggling enough to catch his breath. “You have got to come see this.”

He can hear Sherlock’s footsteps echoing through the house as he approaches. “What is it? You wouldn’t believe it, but this house has an old—oh dear God.”

John starts laughing again at the look of horror on Sherlock’s face. “Yeah, the 70s moved in and never left. Christ, this place looks like my house when I was growing up.”

Red and gold striped wallpaper covers every exposed wall, accented with bright yellow appliances and brown wooden worktops. It’s a large space, decently laid out given the age of the place and what they had to work with, but it is, in a word, ugly.

“I think this wallpaper is vinyl,” John says, prodding at a loose piece. “And I swear my Aunt Pat had that fridge.”

“The cabinetry is solid, if hideous,” Sherlock says, poking his head into one of the doors next to the sink. “But I fail to see how any of this would have been in good taste even then.”

“Don’t ask. Our parents drove Allegros and chain smoked Pall Malls.”

“Well, perhaps your parents,” Sherlock murmurs, and opens a door on the far side of the kitchen. “Oh, look, the back stairs. Shall we look higher, before the sun sets completely?”

“Sure,” John says, and follows Sherlock up the narrow back stairs to the first floor, where a long hallway runs straight down the middle. The décor up here, at least, seems fairly straightforward, pale fawn walls and polished wood floors. There’s a bathroom to John’s left, on the north side, in pretty decent shape if a bit out of date, and two large bedrooms further along that same side. Once they reach the end, they both cross the hall and throw open the door to the first front bedroom and John gasps.

The room is obviously the Master, large and open and airy, with two large windows facing south and and two small ones flanking a small fireplace along the eastern wall. Sherlock slowly walks into the room; impressed, John notes, as he rarely ever is. His eyes seem to glow in the fading sun, and the little half-smile on his face is a wonder.

That smile grows even bigger when John investigates an odd little door along the inner wall and finds a large en suite bathroom. John’s jaw drops open when his eyes adjust to the dim light from the one small window.

It’s like a time capsule, but in all the best ways the 1970s kitchen downstairs wasn’t. The bathroom looks like it was built in the 1920s: all Art Deco chrome and steel and white and black. A large claw-footed porcelain bathtub takes up one entire end, fixtures gleaming dully. Two pedestal sinks with old-style porcelain knobs are on one side, slipper-shaded chrome sconces on either side of the twin mirrors, and the walls, up to the ceiling, are white glass tile with chrome accents. It’s the most amazing, unexpected thing, and John is utterly charmed by it.

Not more than Sherlock is, though. He trails his fingers over the fixtures as he walks, fingers dusting lightly across the smooth, cold walls, across an elaborate radiator in the corner big enough warm the huge expanse of porcelain and glass. Just the thought of heat makes John shiver a bit in the cool shadows.  Sherlock climbs in the tub, heedless of the dust on his coat, leans his head back against the side and closes his eyes.

“Move here with me,” he says.

John’s heart jumps. “So you’re serious, then.”

“Absolutely. Move here with me. Don’t stay in London alone. Come down here with me and start that book you’ve been yammering about.”

John gusts out a laugh. “I can’t just drop everything and move, Sherlock. You may be able to retire to your dream home with all that family money you and Mycroft have stashed somewhere, but I can’t.”

“So you like the house, then.”

“So I like the…of course I like the house! It’s beautiful, it’s perfect, well, sort of, that kitchen is hideous but can be renovated, I suppose. But that is entirely beside the point.”

Sherlock opens his eyes and turns his head toward John, eyes barely above the rim of the enormous tub, suit-clad knees poking over the top. He looks ridiculous, and endearing, and absolutely at home. “I hear there’s a position open for a part-time general physician in a clinic at Seaford,” he says.

A curl of suspicion starts to unfurl. “Oh, you just happen to know that, do you?”

“Well, I may have, perhaps, had a look before we came down,” Sherlock says.

“Mmmhmm. And you may have, perhaps, known this house was for sale,” John says, and leans against the sink, arms crossed.

“There may have been a few pictures online. None of them showed this bathroom, though. I cannot imagine why that is.”

“Stop trying to change the subject.” John can feel the house trying to burrow into his skin, imagines cold winter nights sat beside that massive fireplace, the warm summer breeze drifting across the garden and through the windows. “I don’t know anyone down here. I’d be alone but for you.”

“Not to be entirely blunt, but you don’t go out these days, anyway. Your last night out with the lads, as you say, was months ago. We’re less than three hours away from London. We’re near Brighton and Eastbourne. It’s hardly the middle of nowhere.” Sherlock climbs out of the tub and sits on the edge, eyes serious. “Come on, John. I know you like this place as much as I do. I can buy the house on my own, if that helps. All you need do is say yes.”

John hesitates. As much as the idea appeals, as much as his heart is glad that Sherlock wants him to continue to be part of his life, there are a few things John needs to make clear.

“I expect to have the time to work on my book. I am not going to be your research assistant.”

Sherlock’s eyes light up, and John can feel defeat start to round his shoulders. “Absolutely.”

“I expect to pay my fair share. I’m not going to depend on you alone for my retirement. But I know for a fact I can’t pay half of what I’m sure they’ll want for this house.”

“Well, as I did three-quarters of the work, I’ll pay three-quarters of the cost. How’s that?” Sherlock looks gleeful, hopeful, and John can feel his objections starting to dissolve in the excitement of the possibility of a new adventure, a new life.

“Oi, genius. One last thing.” Sherlock nods, eager. “I’ve had the second bedroom the last fifteen years. I’m not going to have second best in my own home.”

Sherlock’s smile freezes into place, and John struggles to keep his expression neutral as Sherlock fights an internal war between his own nature and a tug toward generosity.

“Of course,” he says at last. “This can be your bedroom.”

John laughs. “And deprive you of that bathroom? Not a chance. There’s one more room, on this side. Let’s go have a look.”

Sherlock follows John down the hall until they reach the last door, and John takes a deep breath, steadying himself.  He’s still not convinced this is the best idea, and he needs a little more time to think about it, to be certain pulling up the roots of his life and following his mad genius to a remote house on the South Downs really is what he wants to do.

He turns the knob and opens the door, and nearly steps back in surprise.

The setting sun lights up the room with a warm orange glow, setting the mullioned windows ablaze. The room is a little smaller than Sherlock’s, but where he has a fireplace, John’s room has a deep bow window along the entire west end, with a built in cushioned seat. Where Sherlock’s room feels formal, cool, this room is soft and warm and comforting, and John takes a tentative step inside. He makes his way to the window seat and lifts one of the small sets of sliding windows.

The roar of the sea is carried into the room on the breeze, the smell of salt still tangible even half a kilometer from the coast. John sinks down onto the cushions and presses his forehead to the glass, feels the tension drain from his neck and shoulders, and knows in his heart, in his bones, that he’s home.

“When do we move?” he asks, and Sherlock’s smile rivals the setting sun.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The flat is in complete disarray two days out from their move to Sussex. Most of what they’re taking is packed, and surveying the boxes, it’s certainly more than John expected. Then again, there is fifteen years of life here, a life full of adventure and danger and excitement and flat out work, and the rooms that have made up the center of their life have been filled to overflowing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With an excess of gratitude to Mydwynter and HiddenLacuna for patient and excellent beta.

“You’re sure Meredith said it was okay to take all of this.” John pauses over a half-packed box of dishes and frowns. “I would have thought Mrs. Hudson would have wanted to give her daughter some of her family’s old furniture.”

“Yes, for the last time, Meredith told me to take the lot. They want to refurnish. And frankly, she’s even less sentimental than I am. I did give her five hundred quid.” Sherlock turns back to his own box, where he’s packing away glassware with exquisite care.

The flat is in complete disarray two days out from their move to Sussex.  Most of what they’re taking is packed, and surveying the boxes, it’s certainly more than John expected. Then again, there is fifteen years of life here, a life full of adventure and danger and excitement and flat out _work_ , and the rooms that have made up the center of their life have been filled to overflowing.

John shakes his head at the stacks of boxes filling the front hall, bemused at how quickly life can take a left turn.  “I heard from Lestrade this afternoon—and I didn’t ask him to help, by the way,” John adds quickly, when he can see Sherlock start to open his mouth. “He says he’ll come down in the summer, when it’s warmer. I didn’t think he’d appreciate us asking him to help us move; he’d do it, then he’d end up complaining for a week from our sofa.”

Sherlock chuckles. “A semi-permanent squawking houseguest. Well, you did insist on saying the house was open to our friends. Perhaps they should earn the privilege.”

“I do hope that doesn’t apply to family,” Mycroft says as he saunters through the door.

“Oh God. Who asked you?” Sherlock rolls his eyes, an expression so perfected over the years John’s fairly sure he doesn’t even realise he does it. “I never said _you_ could come down.”

“Must we?” Mycroft says, and sits down in Sherlock’s chair. “I simply came to ask whether you’d reconsidered my offer for more appropriate security systems for the house.”

“No.”

“Sherlock, be reasonable. You still have enemies, whether you’re in London or Sussex. At least in Baker Street, I have the advantage of the CCTV network.  There are entire miles of Beachy Head without a single camera. I’m not entirely certain you can reliably receive internet service there.”

“I did check, and we can,” John interjects, because he can see the panic rising in Sherlock’s face. “The previous owners had a line laid a decade ago. We can upgrade it later if it’s still not fast enough.”

“The point being,” Mycroft continues, “I could upgrade the lines, and install a security system at the same time. Do please reconsider.”

Sherlock slaps closed the box he’s been carefully packing all afternoon. “I’ve done all the considering I plan to, brother. I’m 47 years old. I’m not going to be under your secret watch for the entirety of my life.”

“A simple perimeter system, no surveillance. I promise.”

If John didn’t know any better, he’d swear Mycroft was begging.  It really isn’t the worst idea, honestly. The house is big and lonely, with a lot of doors. “Maybe we should consider—“ he starts, but Sherlock cuts across him.

“No. If we want a security system, we will have it installed. I’m finished, Mycroft. Do you understand me?”

Mycroft looks like he wants to say something more, but visibly changes his mind, clamps his jaw shut, and stands. “Very well. Give my best to Mrs. Hudson and Meredith.” Sherlock sniffs, then turns his back and starts placing instruments from the lab bench onto the table to be wrapped. Mycroft looks toward John and reaches out a hand. “I wish you all the best, John. I know he can be…trying. Don’t let him dictate the entirety of the rest of your life.”

John shakes Mycroft’s hand and gives him a wry smile. “I’ve lived here with him for fifteen years. I’m sure we’ll be fine. But thank you.”

“Just so.” Mycroft walks toward the door, then pauses and turns back. “Take care of yourself, little brother. I will … miss having you so close.”

Sherlock whirls around with a pipette in his hand, clearly surprised. He stumbles around his words a moment before finally putting the pipette down and crossing the room. “I will always be accessible,” he says, brow furrowed. “I simply won’t be as quickly useful.”

Mycroft quirks a smile. “Then I only hope one day for an invitation to the fabled Wisteria Lodge.”

“We’re not calling it that,” Sherlock snaps, all softness forgotten.

John laughs. “It’s been the house’s name since it was built, Sherlock. There’s no point in changing it now.”

“I hate it,” he grumbles.

“Get over it,” John says cheerfully. They’d argued about the name of the house since they’d bought it, and John refuses to give in.  John happened upon their home’s namesake come to life right in front of his eyes the last day he’d been in Sussex, when the large wisteria vine that twisted over the gate to the patio had started to produce cascades of lavender flowers.  John had been so charmed he refused from then on to consider changing the name.

“You’ll hear from us when we’re settled,” John promises Mycroft, because really, they have two days before the moving van shows up and they need to finish. “Thanks for stopping by to wish us well.”

“Then I’ll be on my way. Goodbye, John. Goodbye, Sherlock. Congratulations.” Mycroft nods and leaves, shoes clattering on the stairs for the last time. John turns to find Sherlock looking oddly pensive.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Hm? Of course.” Sherlock starts back to work, but then slows, and finally stops. “We’ve not lived more than five kilometers apart our entire lives,” Sherlock says. “It will be odd. Good, but odd.”

John smiles. “I think there’s a lot about this entire situation that will feel the same. We’ll be fine.”

“Of course we will,” Sherlock says firmly, and John vows to be certain Mycroft is first on the list of visitors.

……………………………………………………………………..

John isn’t sure how he survives the next two days without killing Sherlock, throwing his things out of the window, or both.

Sherlock is excruciatingly slow at packing; he lingers over every piece of paper, examining them all if they held the secrets of the universe. If John didn’t know better, he’d swear he was being sentimental.

“You’ve been looking at that book for five minutes. If you don’t get moving, we’ll leave them here. Because that van is leaving here tomorrow morning at ten AM, whether you’re with me or not.”

Sherlock scowls and shoves the book into the box perched on the sitting room table. “I simply haven’t looked at this book in a while, I wanted to remember what I kept it for. Otherwise, it was going in the charity bin.”

“You’ve put exactly two books in the charity bin since we started packing. Now get moving.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and tosses the book into the bin, and when John spots which one it is, he snatches it out. “Your 1836 anatomy book? Why on Earth would you think of getting rid of this?”

Sherlock shrugs, puts another book in his box. “Useless, out of date, not even sentimental. I bought it while researching a copycat killing, then never used it again.”

“Maybe Molly would want it. She likes antiques, and this must be worth a fortune.”

“Fine, fine. Do whatever you like with it.” Sherlock stops packing and sighs. “I never thought we’d accumulated so much. I’ve still got boxes at Mycroft’s.”

“I have a feeling the Lodge will swallow up whatever we manage to put in it,” John says, going into the kitchen and preparing the one sentimental gesture he thought Sherlock might accept—a bottle of wine for their last night.

The previous few weeks had been rushed, from hurried goodbyes with friends and neighbors to a crush of congratulatory parties, and he just wants a moment to stop, to acknowledge this one last moment of their life together as crime-solving partners. He knows he and Sherlock will still be together most of the time, but there will be a new reality to navigate and settle into instead of the hectic insanity of the life they’re leaving behind. John uncorks the bottle and retrieves the two wine glasses he’d left in the cabinet. “I know I was complaining just a bit ago, but why don’t you stop a moment.”

Sherlock quirks a smile as John hands him a glass. “Is this my reward for finishing that last shelf?”

“No, you nit, it’s for one last toast, our last night here. There’s a lot of history in this place, Sherlock. I just wanted to celebrate it, even just a tiny bit.”

Sherlock looks into his wine for a moment before giving John a fond smile. “It has been amazing, hasn’t it?”

John laughs. “It really, really has. I can’t imagine anything better.”

Sherlock shifts from foot to foot, wraps both hands around his glass and clears his throat. “I…well. In case I’ve not said it enough, it really has been a privilege, John, and I wouldn’t have been nearly as successful these last fifteen years without you.”

John grins at Sherlock’s awkward attempt at sentiment. John wants to say many things, wants to tell Sherlock how truly incredible he is, what a pleasure it’s been to work with him, to have the great fortune to be considered a friend—a gift he knows Sherlock doesn’t give often. But he can’t push those things past the lump in his throat, so he only smiles, and nods, and raises his glass.

“To Baker Street,” he says.

Sherlock grins, and touches his glass lightly to John’s, the quiet clink echoing loudly in the almost-bare room. “To Baker Street.”

………………………………………………………………………….

That night John can barely sleep, and he stares at the ceiling hoping the pattern of cracks and stains that he’ll see for the last time will bring him some sort of clarity.

They’ve spent the last month planning and organizing and arranging and now all the hard work and stress of buying a house and uprooting their lives is about to bear fruit, and John is starting to break out into a cold sweat.  Despite telling himself to stop, to think of anything else, he can feel little nagging thoughts climbing into his mind, whispering that he and Sherlock will surely drive each other mad, that he’ll be crazed with boredom, that Sherlock will snap after too many days without a case and run off into the night or experiment on the neighbours.

 _Stop that,_ he berates himself, and flips over onto his stomach to smack at his pillow until it’s arranged how he likes it.  They’ll be just fine. Sherlock wouldn’t have brought up the idea at all if he weren’t certain about it, and John’s rational mind keeps saying that John’s been perfectly calm all these weeks, not a spark of a regret, and now is a hell of a time to start. But he can’t help picking at the idea that they’re haring off into the unknown without the thread of cases and excitement to bind them, and what will they do if it all comes unravelled? John can see the spectre of long evenings shared by two separate people living in the same house, no longer with the same interests and becoming strangers as the years pass. That’s what happens to most people, doesn’t it?

John shakes his head and curls up on his side. No, not to them. They’ve weathered worse storms than this, and John knows that his friendship runs deep enough to carry them through.

Besides, if Sherlock drives him too insane, he can always lock him in the tiny little closet Sherlock found hidden under the stairs.

John smiles into the darkness at that comforting thought, and finally, blissfully, falls asleep.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

“Sherlock Holmes, I swear if you’re not downstairs in the next fifteen minutes I’m going to leave you here!” Jesus, John told him ten o’clock, impressed on him the need for the movers to be done by three or they would charge another hundred pounds. And, of course, at fifteen minutes till, Sherlock is nowhere to be found. The van is packed, their goodbyes have been said, and damn it, John is finally, after second guessing himself every night this week and the dark night of the soul last night, ready to just _do this_ already.

So he stalks up the creaking staircase and throws open the door to the sitting room ready to drag Sherlock out by the collar if necessary, but what he finds when he does so makes him slow, take two careful steps to stand behind his friend, and pause.

The flat is completely empty; every book, every piece of furniture, every pot and pan and picture is gone, loaded up onto the truck downstairs. The sun is streaming through the high windows and highlighting the beaten up old floor, the scorchmarks of a hundred botched experiments starkly apparent without the cover of strategically placed rugs and furniture. The holes in the plaster, the worn spot on the door where Sherlock had brushed his knuckles a hundred, a thousand times while hanging up his coat—the impressions of life, their life, illuminated stark and clear and true. Sherlock dips his chin slightly when John gets close, and John can see the twitch of his cheek when he smiles.

“I thought perhaps we should leave a little something behind,” he says, and nods toward the dark, empty fireplace.  John looks closely, and in the very back he can see a flash of white against the soot. He walks closer and stoops down to see that Sherlock has painted something in a white, scrawled script across the back wall of the fireplace.

“‘Here dwelt two men of note,’” John reads, and even as he is touched by Sherlock’s ridiculous streak of sentimentality he can feel a smile tugging at his lips. He looks back at Sherlock and can see Sherlock fighting off a smile of his own. John can’t help it, he starts to giggle. The sentiment is so overblown, yet so sincere John’s giggle turns into snorts and finally a full-blown guffaw.  Sherlock gives him a strange look for a moment but his own lips are twitching, then finally breaks down with him and they laugh so hard John can barely catch his breath, tears starting to form in the corners of his eyes at the squeeze around his heart.

It takes a few moments for them both to sober, and when they finally do, John reaches out to put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.  “Come on,” he says. “It’s time to go.”

Sherlock takes one long, last look around. “Indeed it is,” he says, and they walk down the stairs one last time, the creaks and groans of the old steps ringing in his ears.  John watches with a smile as Sherlock pulls the worn black door closed behind them, the brass knocker rapping a final farewell.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sherlock smiles, a tinge of thanks in his gaze. “Any chance we could get Chinese delivered out here? I’m famished.”_
> 
> _John looks around at their home, feels the unrelenting quiet of the place without the bustle of London all around them. “Sherlock, and you know I say this as your friend, without malice. But there isn’t a chance in hell.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With more than heartfelt thanks - with a whole lot of fucking gratitude - to Mydwynter and HiddenLacuna, who kicked my ass, put up with my whining, and made sure this chapter was better than they found it. <3
> 
> Sorry for how long this has taken to update. This chapter almost killed me, ya'll. The dreaded middle, my new nemesis.

To John’s shock, the movers manage to get everything unloaded, drop only one box, and present their invoice for payment at a quarter of three.  John waves them off with a sigh of relief and leans back against the front door— _their_ front door—and the room falls silent and still, the ceiling creaking slightly where Sherlock is pacing back and forth in his room.

John looks around. Their furniture looks woefully inadequate, modern and out of place in the massive front room, but it’s a comfort, and John smiles a little to himself as he walks around and throws open all of the windows to let the salt air flow in with a rush. It’s so amazingly beautiful here, with the sun highlighting the bright green grass and the sky an endless blue stretching out as far as he can see. John leans on the windowsill and just breathes for a moment, letting peace settle into his bones before he gathers up the will to start unpacking.

That peace is shattered within moments as he hears an ear-splitting, agonized scream that carries through the rafters, down the stairs, and seemingly rattles the windows.

“John!” Sherlock yells. “I can’t get a signal on my bloody phone!”

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

After John laughs hysterically at Sherlock’s panicked face, he then spends ten minutes reassuring him that at least the appointment to set up the high-speed wireless internet is set for tomorrow morning.

“But that’s hours away!” Sherlock whines, waving his mobile over his head. “There could be email!”

John rocks back on his heels and enjoys the show. “Sherlock, you left London about four hours ago. And wasn’t there some sort of announcement on your website? Oh, that’s right. ‘Go the fuck away and don’t bother me, I’m retired,’ I think it was.”

“Yes, but, but...”Sherlock sits down on his bed, utterly at a loss. “I feel like there are things going on I don’t know about.”

John pats his arm. “I’m sure if anything really major is happening, someone will find a way to contact you. Now, can we please get started on this retirement business?” Sherlock takes a deep breath and nods decisively, then shuts his mobile in the drawer of his bedside table and begins to root around in a box, pulling things out and putting them on the bed.

John thinks they could both use a cup of tea after that bit of drama, so he clatters his way down the back stairs (back stairs, he can’t believe he has a back stairs) and into the kitchen. He finds the box he’d marked “OPEN FIRST” in bold, black marker pen and drags out the kettle, fills it, plugs it in, and clicks it on.

Nothing happens.

He tries another socket: nothing. He tries the one other set of sockets in the kitchen in desperate hope: still nothing.  John knew the kitchen outlets were wonky; they had the electrician out, and they were supposed to check and repair all of the outlets and make sure they were all grounded and up to standard. At least, they were supposed to have had the electrician out, John thinks, suspicion rising. That task had been delegated, despite John’s misgivings that it would actually be accomplished. He should have known better.

“Sherlock Holmes!” he yells up the stairs.

“What?” comes the faint reply. Christ, he’s going to have to go up there, there’s no way Sherlock can hear him all the way on the opposite side of the house. He climbs up the stairs and strides down the hall to Sherlock’s bedroom.  This place is going to be a workout just walking around it.

“Did you call the electrician to come out to fix all of the sockets and lights like you promised?” John says.

Sherlock looks up from the blizzard of paper he’s already managed to create in the middle of the floor, his martial arts certificate and Poe prints already leaning against the mantelpiece, his antique bookshelf clean and waiting for inhabitants. “Perhaps not precisely,” he says, and bends back down to the box. “Hah! Knew they were in here.” Sherlock tosses a stack of sheets and his duvet on his bed and busily starts to make it, but John won’t be dismissed so easily.

“Define ‘precisely.’”

“I define it as ‘not at all’,” Sherlock says, stuffing a pillow into a pillowcase. He looks disgustingly unconcerned.

John rubs his hand over his face. It’s been a long day, so he takes a deep breath and tries to summon patience. “I hate you,” he says. Well, it _is_ the most patient answer he can come up with.

“This is not an auspicious beginning, John.”

“Considering you were the one in a lather over lack of internet not ten minutes ago, you’re one to talk.  At least I know the heating was inspected, because I did it. I’m going to go turn it on. This place is bloody freezing.”

John heads back downstairs. The heating controls are in along the wall just outside the swinging door from the kitchen into the sitting room. He flicks the switch and pauses, waits, then hears the gurgle and push of the water start to rattle through the pipes. He breathes a sigh of relief, then goes back up the stairs to his room, finds another outlet, and plugs in the kettle, the little blue light reassuringly bright. John stands, relieved, until he realises he’s forgotten the tea and cups. Exasperated, he goes back down and roots through boxes until he finds those as well. By the time he comes back up the kettle has boiled, so he makes his tea and carries it to the window seat. He sits down, weary with the bustle of the day, and looks out across the Downs, idly picking the dark shadows of their neighbours houses out from against the swathes of green.

“I think we’ve got quite a bit to get used to, besides the size of the place,” Sherlock says from the doorway, startling John out of his meditation.

“I’ll say. Starting with the lack of properly working outlets in the kitchen. I’ll call tomorrow, see if someone will come.”

“Your room has quite a bit more natural light,” Sherlock says, and walks in a slow circle around the room, appraising.

“Oh, no you don’t,” John says, because he knows that look, and he’s not being bullied out of his lovely room. “This is my space. I don’t care how much natural light you think you need. You will have to drag out my cold dead corpse before I’ll give it up.”

“That can be arranged,” Sherlock says, and waggles his eyebrows. John laughs, then gestures for Sherlock to sit down on the bench seat next to him. He does, looking somewhat awkward and flexing his fingers.

John realises that Sherlock’s feeling a bit bereft with nothing in his hands, sitting quietly in a silent room without a case or something to fiddle with. He’s always doing something, long dexterous fingers twiddling a glass pipette, wrapped around a book, or tapping away at his keyboard. His hands are quite lovely, still smooth and unlined, tiny white lines of scars picked up here and there in their rough and tumble life, the evidence of one memorable and very grisly incident with metal fencing still curving up from his palm and around his wrist.

“You going to be okay?” John asks, when he realises he’s been staring at Sherlock’s hands too long.

Sherlock smiles with one corner of his mouth. “Of course. I’ll be unpacked by Monday, ready to start work. I’ve been organizing this book for the last year, you realise.”

“Yes, well, I know that, but even so. I’m not sure you’ve been this still in a decade. Two decades.”

“I won’t be still, John,” Sherlock says, and stands up to pace the room “I’ll be working. The purest exercise of the mind, to recall and precisely describe every detail of my methods. I’ve used them so long it’s second nature for me, but to instruct, to teach, to —“

“Sound like an enormous knob,” John says, laughing. “You’re such a fucking ponce, you know that?”

With a growl, Sherlock snags a pillow from the laundry basket John had stacked his bedding in and lobs it at John’s head. John catches it and launches it back, at the same time taking a quick step forward to shoulder Sherlock hard, making him lose his balance and fall sideways. Sherlock, his reflexes as quick as they ever were, rolls over the bed and ends up on the other side, giving a feral grin and snatching the kettle up before he makes a break for it.

“Wanker!” John shouts, and chases Sherlock down the hall and into his room, where Sherlock has put the kettle on the top of his bookshelf. The entire situation is incredibly juvenile, but John gave up caring about that sort of thing years ago—when living with Sherlock became a constant rotation of snark, prank wars, and deadly danger.

“Apologise, or I’ll use it for heating nitric acid,” Sherlock says, standing defensively in front of the shelf, arms akimbo, balanced on his toes and ready to strike. John scours the room until his gaze lights on a  box with an open top, the edge of a large binder visible. He snatches it up and brandishes it above his head.

“Ha ha, look at this new fuel I found for the fireplace! Bet that’ll go up in a jiffy.”

Sherlock’s mocking smile vanishes instantly and he takes a step forward with a hand outstretched. “No! Please, stop.”

John’s taken aback by Sherlock’s panic, seemingly genuine. “Sorry,” he says, and hands the binder of papers over. “You know I wouldn’t really. Is it something important, so I know for later?”

Sherlock sits down on his half-made bed and opens the binder on his lap. “It’s the notes for my book,” he says, and smooths down the first page.

“You have all your notes in hardcopy?” John asks, and takes a look at the first page. “Deduction is, or ought to be, an exact science, and should be treated in a cold and unemotional manner by the reasoner,” he reads. “This isn’t just notes, this is the first chapter. Good God, Sherlock, you were completely serious about this book. I thought it was just an idea, not something you’d actually been working on.”

“Of course I’m serious,” Sherlock says, with a lifted eyebrow. “I didn’t decide to move out here to the wilds of the Downs on a whim. I’ve been writing down bits and pieces of this book my entire life.”

John shakes his head. He may never manage to fully understand Sherlock, never get the full extent of his interests or talents. There’s always a small part of him that he seems to hide away, keep safe, and never really show until he’s absolutely ready to accept any consequences of exposure. John’s honoured that it seems he’s the one who is chosen for the reveal most of the time.

“Well,” he starts, trying to break the serious mood their first afternoon had shifted to, “if you want to start writing any time soon, I’d suggest you get back to it. You’ve got two entire rooms of your own to get put together.”

Sherlock smiles, a tinge of thanks in his gaze. “Any chance we could get Chinese delivered out here? I’m famished.”

John looks around at their home, feels the unrelenting quiet of the place without the bustle of London all around them. “Sherlock, and you know I say this as your friend, without malice. But there isn’t a chance in hell.”

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

John lies awake that night in his new bed, moonlight streaming in the open windows, the shift and creak of the house as it settles to its new inhabitants a constant stream of quiet chatter. He can hear Sherlock still quietly moving about down the hall, too, the tinkle of glassware drifting under his door as Sherlock sets up his equipment.  He climbs out of bed and finds his comfort spot on the seat at the window and looks out, the stars glimmering against the blue-black sky.

It’s so deathly quiet, and when it isn’t quiet it’s a little spooky, and John remembers nights like this long, long ago, nights under the Afghan sky where it was nothing but stars and the quiet murmur of voices that didn’t want to be overheard. There was tension in those nights, fear of being ambushed in every skitter of a creature through the underbrush. In London, the night was never threatening, not to John, and he and Sherlock more than once made expert use of its friendly cover for a little outside-the-bounds surveillance or housebreaking.

But here, this night feels open, and empty, and the boundaries of the sky stretch on forever without limits, without the shadow of clouds, full of promise for a bright day to come. John sighs, content, and goes back to bed.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

They putter around the house for a few more days, putting things away and bickering about the arrangement of the furniture in the great room downstairs and the fact that Sherlock still hasn’t had the electricians out.  John drives their rental into Lewes and finds some groceries, stocking the ancient fridge and cabinets and realising he’s going to have to dust off his cooking skills, because none of the Chinese restaurants in Eastbourne or Lewes will deliver.  John’s certainly not driving in there three nights a week for take away.  Besides, it’ll be better for both of them to eat less take away and more fresh veg, and it’ll keep John out of the little bakery he found in Lewes, filled with gorgeous cakes and pies and doughnuts which he and Sherlock have both cultivated a fondness for.

Yes, Collette’s ought to come with a warning label, John muses, as he helps himself to another slice of cinnamon walnut cake from the box. Not only that, he needs to stop driving everywhere, too, and take more walks. He was used to walking everywhere in London, so he’s a bit disturbed to find he’s gained four pounds in the ten days he’s been here. So he goes upstairs and drags Sherlock, protesting, out of his study and onto the Downs for a long ramble down along the cliffs and back. He’s not actually spoken to Sherlock all day, and he’s feeling a bit lonely. The rest of the house outside his bedroom is big and empty and cold, and he misses London. 

He watches Sherlock out of the corner of his eye as they walk. Sherlock, for his part, looks relaxed and rested, and he’s been chattering on about his plans.

“Bees, John.”

“I’m sorry, it’s a bit windy out here, but I could have sworn you just said bees.”

“I did. I’d like to do some research on hive behavior. It’s illuminating, how it mirrors human society.”

John shakes his head. Sherlock’s had odder ideas, he supposes, but knowing him, it will be one of those things he talks about but never actually follows through on. He’s brilliant, but that quicksilver mind of his can be so fleeting in its interests.

So far, Sherlock has been spending most of his days puttering about with his laptop, slinking around the house or doing God knows what in the outbuildings. It’s unsettling, really. But he seems happy, engaged and busy, and John’s definitely ready  to find something of his own to do.

“I heard from the clinic,” John puffs, as they climb back up the cliffs from their walk along the sea. “They want me to come in tomorrow for an interview.  I’d be working Mondays, Tuesdays, and Fridays, mostly. Not bad, I thought, for a half-retirement.”

“Treating the population of Sussex for runny noses and gout? Your ideas of what constitutes retirement surprise me, John.”

“Shut up. I need somewhere to be, or I’ll just laze around. It’s easier for me to get motivated if I have appointments to keep.” John stumbles as he reaches the top and Sherlock reaches out a hand, steadies him before he can fall. The skin between Sherlock’s fingers where they’re tangled with his own is soft and silky, and John feels the warmth up to his chest, a punch of adrenaline that leaves him trembling. Sherlock catches his gaze for a moment, eyes wide, but glances away quickly, almost as if…

No. It’s just all this time alone, John thinks, as he rubs his hand roughly on his jeans.  There isn’t anyone else around to break the tension. That’s enough to push them both into odd behaviour on its own.

That, and he needs to get laid.

………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Romance is going to have to wait a bit, though, because there is now a fountain right in the middle of John’s upstairs bathroom.

“Turn the water off,” he yells, the broken faucet spraying him in the face and the under-sink valve handle also broken off and clutched in his hand. “We’re going to ruin the ceiling!”

He doesn’t hear Sherlock acknowledge him but a few moments later the water stops. John drops the valve handle into the sink and sits on the edge of the bathtub, water pooled around his feet.

He’d been trying to brush his teeth before his second day of work at the clinic, and he supposes he must have been a bit too forceful with the old faucet in turning the water off.  It’s too bad, because the old chrome and porcelain faucets were really lovely. 

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asks, appearing in the doorway. He takes a quick step backward out of the spreading water. “Did you break it, or was it already corroded beyond all hope?”

“Corroded,” John says, and points to the faucet handle next to the sink.

Sherlock stretches forward, picks it up and examines it. “Right. I’ve never installed a faucet before. Can’t be too difficult, can it?” He finally gingerly steps into the water and looks under the sink. “Ah, you broke the valve as well. Which explains why I had to turn the entire house water supply off. Perhaps next time I might suggest simply turning the valve a quarter—”

“Shut up,” John growls. “I’m going to be late for work. You’re going to make it up to me for the electrician by having a plumber out today. Clear?”

“Crystal.”

“I’m leaving as soon as I’m finished with this. I’ll be home later. And don’t try to open the door to the understairs bath right now, it’s sticking.” John points at him. “If you get trapped in there I don’t want you breaking the door to get out. It’d be hell to replace.”

Sherlock opens his mouth, but before he can even say anything, John stands up and points at him. “Out! Get out and let me deal with this. No more opinions, just get the plumber, please.” Sherlock gives John a concerned look, but retreats to his laboratory.  John pulls the mop and bucket out of the small lumber room next door to the bathroom.

 _Stupid house_ , John thinks, as he drops the mop into the puddle with wet smack. _Who thought buying this place was a good idea anyway?_

........................................................

If John never sees another resident of Lewes or the surrounding environs again, he’d be perfectly happy.  It’s the end of his first week of work, a Friday, and he’s not even  going to hint to Sherlock that he might have possibly been somewhat right about the prevalence of gout in Lewes. What he wouldn’t give for a nice case of mysterious fainting. Or maybe a poisoning.

He shakes his head to clear it from those rather uncharitable and grisly thoughts. Sounds more like Sherlock, thinking that way. John fishes around in his pocket for the keys to an ancient Land Rover he bought from a neighbour the day before, and then turns his collar up against the driving rain. He really wants nothing more than to go home, dry off, and sit in front of the telly with a beer. But even more than that, he wants to celebrate making it through his first week of his new job with a cake. Or maybe a pie.  He scurries down the pavement until he reaches his favourite bright orange shopfront.

“‘Allo, Jean, I’m so glad you happened by,” Colette calls from the back of the bakery. John grins and shivers a bit, the warm air from the ovens a welcome respite from the chilly rain. Colette’s been in England for almost 50 years and still hasn’t lost the French lilt she carried from Lyon. “I ‘ave the most beautiful apple cake just for your Sherlock, wait a moment.” Her white hair disappears behind the door to the kitchen before John can protest _he’s not my Sherlock_ and she reappears carrying a teal box with an orange bow. She’s been flirting shamelessly with Sherlock via baked goods for the last two weeks and John’s more than happy to encourage it if it means more free cake.

John tries to peek into the box and gets smack on the fingers for his trouble. “Not for you, darling Jean, it’s for my beautiful boy.”

“Ow! Well, it smells gorgeous, and if you ever decide you want a man who will appreciate you properly, just say the word.”  John gallantly kisses the prominent, arthritic knuckles of the hand that smacked him, and at that moment, his stomach growls.

Colette giggles. “Poor darling Jean, no one to feed you _bombe glaceé, e_ h?” she says, and her smile is sympathetic at the same time as it seems knowing. John flushes unexpectedly. “Come, you look miserable and tired. I will give you the last éclair for the drive home.” Colette fishes around in one of her sparkling glass cases and hands John a wrapped pastry. He tries to pay, but she waves him off.

“Next time bring my beautiful boy or it’s double,” she chirps, then waves goodbye absently as her assistant, Ruby, steps in with a cartful of cream puffs.

John tries to hide his éclair under the edge of his coat to protect it from the rain until he can unlock the Land Rover and get in. He starts the car and figures he may as well eat his treat while he waits for the rattling engine to warm. God, it’s perfect, exactly what he needed to cheer him. He never was one to find comfort in food, but then again, he’s never tasted anything like Colette’s. If he’s lucky, Sherlock will share a bit of his gift, so after supper he may have a slice of the apple cake as well. John licks the chocolate glaze from his fingers, puts the car in gear and maneuvers home through sheets of driving rain.

The drive is so muddy from the rain that John’s up to his ankles in it as soon as he steps out of the barn after he parks the car. London may have been wet but it was never like this. Disgusted, John slides the large door to the barn closed, lifts his collar again against the wind and trudges toward the house. The weather has been so ugly even the blooms have been blown off the wisteria vine where it sways and creaks against the low wall to the patio. The house looms large and forbidding in front of him, and he scowls. They still have so much to do to finish putting the house together, not even counting all the renovations they have planned, and John just isn’t in the mood for unpacking tonight.

When he throws open the back door, though, the house is warm and there’s a pot of something on the hob that may or may not be the last of the stew he’d made yesterday, smelling better than anything he cooked has a right to. He dumps his wet coat on the hook by the door and walks through to the sitting room, the sound of shuffles and bangs and curses drawing him towards Sherlock’s likely location. He pushes through the swinging door and stops dead. 

The room is almost finished, furniture rearranged and pictures hung, and Sherlock has even pushed John’s desk under the window where he’d wanted it. The fire is lit, throwing off heat and golden-orange light that leaves shadows dancing in the corners of the room.

“Ah, John, there you are,” Sherlock says, precariously balanced on the arm of a chair and arranging more books on what appears to be three new bookcases that were not there when John left for work this morning. “I was going to eat that stew you made but since you’re here and you brought me Colette’s, you can have it. Need to watch those free éclairs; you’ve loosened your belt again.” John looks down, and sure enough, a smear of chocolate on his shirt gives his illicit snack away. Before he can respond a loud explosion from upstairs startles him into speechlessness and sends Sherlock leaping from the chair with a maniacal laugh. “Experiment, John!” he calls, and pounds up the stairs.

The room settles back into quietness, a flutter of papers drifting across the chair in Sherlock’s wake, and John sinks onto the sofa and laughs until tears roll down his cheeks.

Finally, finally this huge wreck of a house feels like home.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John stares at the open gate for a moment before slowly turning toward the van and cautiously peering inside. Three large, white hive boxes sit innocuously in the back. There isn’t a bee in sight, thankfully. John shivers anyway._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _He fucking hates bees._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With love and gratitude to Mydwynter and Lacuna, who give tutorials on oranges, comma splices, and floating dicks. <3

It’s a bright, warm morning in May when John hears the delivery van pull into the drive.

The air in the barn is thick with dust, sun glinting through the cracks between the board walls and glancing off the sander John’s been wielding with enthusiasm. He’s been sanding down the door from the understairs bath, taking a bit from the top edge to allow it to swing freely on the hinges instead of getting stuck against the doorjamb.  The creaking had been driving him mad, so as soon as the weather had cooperated, John carefully removed all of the brass hardware and carried the door down to the barn under Sherlock’s dubious gaze. 

_“You have no idea what you’re doing,” Sherlock had said._

_“Ta very much,” John replied. “And if you’re so concerned about it, you could help instead of standing there criticizing.”_

_Sherlock looked horrified. “Absolutely not.  Besides, I’m busy. Quite a lot to do to get ready for today.” And with that odd pronouncement, Sherlock darted off. John rolled his eyes. Wanker. Should have known he’d get stuck doing most of the reno._

Since he had it down anyway, John had decided he may as well sand the entire door and stain and varnish it, as the edge near the doorknob had started to yellow and crack.  The wood is dense, honey-colored and still strong, and John runs his hand over the now-satiny surface with satisfaction. It’s been ages since he helped his dad do work around the house, and he’d not had much opportunity to keep up any sort of repair skills in Baker Street, so John’s relying quite a lot on long-dormant instinct and a whole lot of DIY videos from the internet. 

He’s just pulling his shirt off to shake out the dust when he hears someone pull up, gravel crunching under the tyres. They’ve never yet had a visitor, so John pokes his head around the open barn door to see if he can suss out who it is without revealing himself. He’s just about to look around for a convenient weapon to take with him when he shakes his head and laughs. The chances that anyone out here is a threat and needs to be quietly neutralized are slim, but it seems old habits die hard.

The front end of a delivery van is visible from the side of the house, and as John walks closer, he can see the side is stenciled with “Heatherbell Honey Bees.” Oh, sweet Christ, John thinks, stomach sinking a little.  He really did it.

John edges around the side of the house and finds Sherlock at the front door, speaking with a woman wearing full beekeeper’s gear and holding a clipboard thick with papers. Sherlock is beaming and obviously excited, and just as John realizes he’s skulking around his own property without a shirt on, Sherlock spots him.

“John! There you are! Come and look, my bees have arrived!” Sherlock starts to turn away, but then glances back. “Perhaps once you’re fully dressed,” he adds.

John flushes and pulls his shirt on quickly before walking up and extending his hand to the beekeeper.  “John Watson. Sorry about that, I was doing some work outside.”

The woman shakes John’s hand. “Melissa Penn.  Lovely to meet you. Well,” She says briskly, turning back to Sherlock. “Where do you want them?”

Sherlock waves his hand at the garden gate and begins to walk that way with Melissa in tow, John hearing words like “wind direction” and “apple blossom” before they both disappear into the rather bedraggled and overgrown garden.

John stares at the open gate for a moment before slowly turning toward the van and cautiously peering inside. Three large, white hive boxes sit innocuously in the back. There isn’t a bee in sight, thankfully. John shivers anyway.

He fucking _hates_ bees.

……………………………………………………………………………………….

John decides discretion is the better part of valour and stays out of the garden for the next few days.  Sherlock, however, is _always_ in the garden, in all weather from the first blush of dawn until dusk.  If he stands at the large window at the end of the upstairs hall, John can see the top of Sherlock’s head bent over a notebook, scribbling away and staring at the three white hives nestled in the back corner of their garden, next to a large plum tree now in full bloom, the spreading branches a purple canopy that covers half the garden in shade. 

John’s glad Sherlock is happy with his hives, he is. But now he’s got to think about how to deal with reworking the garden while fighting for space with thousands of evil little beasts with stingers who likely won’t be happy he’s invaded their territory. John sighs and watches idly as Sherlock slowly approaches the hives with his smoker. They could start with the kitchen, he muses, once he finishes with the door. He’d wanted to wait until winter to do the inside work, and do the garden over the summer. He could work on repairing the collapsed section of garden wall, though, and perhaps Sherlock could be convinced to help, if even for a couple of hours of stacking up the old stones.

Just as John is about to turn back to go downstairs he sees Sherlock gently swat at his hair. John snorts a laugh, because Sherlock is so completely convinced that he “understands” his bees by now that he went out today without his net hat on. Sherlock brushes his hand over his face a few more times, and John giggles again, but his amusement abruptly dries up when he Sherlock makes a break for the house, brushing his hands down his arms and shaking his head. John rushes downstairs and meets him at the French doors into the great room, unlocking the doors quickly and trying to get Sherlock inside while keeping most of the bees outside.

“Dammit, out, out you bastards, out you go. Ouch!” John feels the sharp burn of a sting on his hand. He tries to ignore it and slams the door, helping Sherlock brush off the best he can.

“They suddenly swarmed me,” Sherlock says, shaking his pants leg, “Ow, fuck that hurts. Ouch!”

John doesn’t even think; he just starts unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt as Sherlock undoes his belt. “They’re in your shirt, Sherlock, Christ, here, let’s get it all off, sorry,” John says, and strips Sherlock as efficiently as he ever has any emergency patient until Sherlock is standing in the middle of the room in nothing but his bright blue pants.

“Oh, hell, Sherlock, they really did get you,” John says, examining what looks like over two dozen stings on Sherlock’s chest and legs. “Tell me you’re not allergic.”

“No,” Sherlock moans piteously. “But it burns.”

John takes him by the arm and pulls him upstairs. “I imagine it does. Come on, up you go. I sound like my mum, but you’re getting an oatmeal bath.”

“A what?”

“Ground oatmeal in a cool bath. It’ll help. Then some painkillers of a sort, I’ll have to see what I’ve got. Then relaxing a bit.”

John walks Sherlock all the way down to his room, where he leaves Sherlock sitting dully on the edge of his bed while John draws him a bath in his enormous clawfoot bathtub. As he does, John spots a bottle with an expensive-looking label sitting in the little wire basket next to the tub.

“Lemon bergamot shampoo, Sherlock?” John says, popping his head out to see Sherlock sprawled on the bed. “One, you’re an idiot. Two, no, seriously, you’re an idiot.”

Sherlock pouts. “I like how it smells. Everything else is too flowery.”

“ _This_ is too flowery. You’re lucky they didn’t try to carry you off.”

Sherlock sits up, the welts on his body now more pronounced and red, warping the still-sharp lines of his muscles. It’s so unfair he’s stayed so fit at his age, John thinks, and when Sherlock brushes a bare shoulder past John and strips off his pants John catches sight of his really well-preserved and nicely-rounded arse and feels himself flush, the warmth of that accidental touch burning his arm like a brand.

“I’ll, um, I’ll just go get the oatmeal,” John stammers, and strides from the room and down the back stairs into the kitchen.

 _What the hell is the matter with me_ , he thinks, rooting around in the cabinets. He’s always thought Sherlock was a good-looking man but it’s never been like this, awareness of Sherlock’s body like an electric current raising the hair on the back of his neck. They’ve lived together for over fifteen years, for Christ’s sake. A bit late in the game for a ridiculous crush, isn’t it?

John realizes he’s been standing in the kitchen for a while with the oatmeal box in his hand, so he hurries back upstairs and finds Sherlock lounging in the tub with his eyes closed, head resting on the edge, his neck a sinuous arch. John carefully avoids looking at the rest of him, his body unabashedly nude under the vague distortion of the water.  He realizes with a jolt just how long Sherlock’s arms are, one bare limb resting lightly on the edge of the tub, fingers splayed against the white porcelain. 

Sherlock cracks his eyes open and John blinks, then quickly sprinkles in a few handfuls of oatmeal, rubbing it fine between his palms first. It’s an agonizingly slow process, with Sherlock drowsing in the water and John starting to sweat from the steam, and in desperation he takes out two big handfuls and drops it in.  “You’ll want to swirl that around a bit,” he says, because there is no way in hell he’s reaching his hand into that bathtub full of naked, wet Sherlock Holmes. “I’ll be back in a bit to check on you, make sure there aren’t any stingers left in.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, and catches John’s gaze for a moment. John can feel that awareness creeping back into the room, the beginnings of a new sort of tension in Sherlock’s eyes.

It’s too much. John nods and closes the door behind him, leaving Sherlock’s room entirely and striding down the hall to his own. He drops heavily onto the bed and passes his hand over his face.

 _Fuck_. He’s too old for this shit.

………………………………………………………………………………………

John doesn’t sleep well for the next few nights, tossing and turning and trying to sort out exactly what has managed, after all these years, to flip his perception of Sherlock from best mate to…well. What, exactly? He isn’t sure. He knows he’s aware of Sherlock, aware of him physically in a way he never really has been before, and it’s driving him mad.  It’s likely temporary, whatever it is, a result of the move and their change in circumstances.  They’re probably spending too much time together now, or something, and John’s libido has decided to wake up and take notice of the nearest attractive human.

Because that’s the problem, isn’t it? Sherlock _is_ attractive, tall and lithe and strong, the lines around his eyes and mouth showing the effect of a life spent smiling perhaps more than he expected.  All the years John’s been around him still hasn’t dulled the effect of Sherlock’s charisma, either, the bright star of his intelligence drawing people, drawing _John,_ to him like moths to a flame.

John shivers at the last. Get too close and you could get singed, he thinks.

If Sherlock notices John’s sleeplessness he doesn’t say anything. He simply holes up in his study, tapping steadily away at his laptop when he’s not outside watching bees (now always wearing his protective clothing, John notes). He appears briefly, occasionally, for a quick bite or two from the kitchen, then goes back to his work. 

John shrugs. He’s used to a measure of solitude after all, and a few days of alone time to sort himself out isn’t going to hurt any.  Besides, it’s nice to see Sherlock happily settling into his work without complaint, though if he doesn’t stop leaving plates and cups all over the house they’re going to be overrun with mice. John sighs and makes his now-daily circuit of the downstairs to clear up dishes, before he settles to his own work.

It’s taken a bit of time for him to get going, but John is ready to take a break from constant house repairs and start work on his own retirement project—a collection of his blog posts expanded into longer short stories, with the addition of a few he’s not ever published on the blog before. He’s been tapping away for an hour, the television a low hum in the background. It’s all very nice and homey and John’s on a rather nice roll with his writing when Sherlock stomps down the stairs and dramatically flops onto the sofa in a swirl of frayed blue dressing gown.

“Bored!” he announces.

John looks at his watch. It’s been exactly 26 days.

 _He made it until this exact minute_ , John texts Lestrade. “You absolutely must be joking,” he says to Sherlock.

Sherlock rolls over, displeasure radiating from every angle of his body, from his pouting mouth to his drawn up knees. “I’m not. It’s so dreadfully _dull_ here.”

“What, being attacked by a swarm of bees not exciting enough for you?”

“Shut up. You know what I mean. There’s nothing here, nothing to set my mind against, nothing to _solve_.”

“What happened to ‘the purest exercise of the mind’ and all that?”

 _That’s impressive,_ Lestrade texts back. _He’s not actually tried to shoot anything, has he?_

“Shut _up,_ ” Sherlock says again. “I’m just … I’m having a bit of trouble trying to translate everything I want to say into words.”

“Ah, writer’s block. Got it. Well, genius, you could help me solve where the leak in the roof is coming from, that could help.”

Sherlock makes an agonised sound and marches over to throw open the front door, standing in the late afternoon sunlight, the edges of his hair edged in gold. He’d look beautiful, John notes, if he didn’t look so put out.

“I need a case,” he whines.

“You’re retired,” John points out unnecessarily, but he can feel the rising tide of Sherlock’s desperation for action starting to edge in around his toes.

“I’m not dead, John.  Give me problems. Give me work.”

“Give me strength. Good God. “ John rubs his forehead. _He’s working himself into a state,_ John types quickly to Lestrade. _Is there anything on?_

_Nothing. All quiet since you left. If I didn’t know better I’d think the criminals were only interesting these last 15 years just to impress him._

“I see your face, John,” Sherlock says, pointing an accusing finger. “And I’ve already looked through the Met database for a case or I would have contacted Lestrade before now.”

“You looked through the—since when did you start hacking?”

Sherlock slams the door to the house and climbs into his chair, curling himself up until he can wrap his arms around his knees, and glares at John from under his fringe. “I didn’t hack it. Lestrade never changes his password more than a single, consecutive digit at a time. It’s pathetically easy to guess.”

John rolls his eyes. “Of course it is.  I’m sorry, I can’t help you. You’re just going to have to be an adult and amuse yourself.”

“Easy for you to say,” Sherlock says. “You’ve got things you’re working on. ‘ _Lady Brackenstall was no ordinary person. I have rarely seen such a graceful figure, feminine presence, and beautiful face all belonging to the same person’.”_ Sherlock quotes, voice twisted with derision.

“How did you even read that! I just wrote it this afternoon!” John had been rewriting the Abbey Grange case, and had perhaps gotten a bit carried away describing the lovely Alyssa Brackenstall.

“We share a server, or have you forgotten?” Sherlock says. “I really cannot condone your efforts, John, I really cannot. You’re trying to paint all of our cases with a swath of romance worthy of Mills and Boone. You’d be much better off sticking to the facts.”

“Those are facts, Sherlock,” John snaps. “ _You’d_ be much better off helping me with anything I’ve asked you about in the last few weeks instead of complaining how bored you are.”

“Hmph.  I think I have better things to do than play handyman.” Sherlock says, then scrunches even further down into the chair, barely peering over the tops of his knees.

John clenches his teeth, then takes a deep breath and holds it for a count of five. His voice, when it comes, is remarkably controlled. “May I remind you, coming down here was your idea. That this massive money pit was your idea. That you’ve not lifted a finger to help with it. I can barely keep a roof over our head that doesn’t leak and water actually flowing through the pipes without them breaking and when I have time to do something I’d like to do I have to sit and listen to your opinion on it.” Sherlock watches with wide eyes as John feels fury squeeze his chest and make it hard to breathe, and the thread of his control is stretching tighter by the second.  “Matter of fact, no, I really don’t have to listen to your opinion on it. I’m leaving.”

John stomps off to the barn and backs the Rover out faster than is wise, barely missing the edge of the door and the remnants of the fountain— a goose girl half-crumbled off at the base. He tears off down the lane and along the coast into Eastbourne, where he finds the first likely-looking pub, slides onto a barstool and orders a pint of lager and a whiskey.

“Have a row with the missus?” the bartender asks, placing the glass of whiskey next to John’s elbow.

John snorts into his drink. “You could say that,” he says. He’s long past caring if anyone thinks that he and Sherlock are a couple—and considering he may have screwed up by tying his entire future to Sherlock like this, he can barely argue the point.  This is it, he thinks darkly, this what he has to look forward to for an interminable stretch of years, caretaker to a genius idiot who can barely contemplate that people around him might have needs or wants or find his behaviour objectionable.  John knew this, so why the barbs of Sherlock’s casual cruelties still stick in his heart he isn’t sure.  But they do, this time just like every goddamn time before. 

John bangs his empty glass on the glossy wood bar. It feels pathetic. The house, the growing sense of something building between Sherlock and himself; everything seems immature and insipid under Sherlock’s withering scorn. He might be insane. Or go insane. Stupid wanker, expecting John to just cater to his every whim. Stupid John for doing it for fifteen years.

The shot of whiskey burns all the way down, the heat and the glow spreading out through his fingertips, calming him enough to let his rational mind take over and figure out what caused their most recent flare up.

Sherlock said he’s bored. He’s been acting oddly ever since the Bee Incident. He’s been holed up in his room working and has never come down, never spoken to John, which was fine, as John needed the alone time to sort through the mess his feelings had become the last few days. Sherlock usually only shut John out when he had something incredibly personal he was struggling with, becoming a right twat, usually, if it were something that really had thrown him for a loop.

He’s grumbled and growled and chewed on the problem most of the way into his second pint when it hits him.

The realization almost knocks John from his barstool, and he stumbles over his own feet in his haste to leave. He isn’t sure how things could have changed so quickly when there hadn’t ever been a hint, not the faintest sign of anything lurking under the surface that could have led to more than the friendship they’d always shared.

John makes it to the door before he realizes he hasn’t settled up. He drops a handful of cash on the bar to a cheerful “Good luck!” from the bartender and tries to measure whether or not he’s sober enough to drive home. He walks a parking line in the car park and stands with his eyes closed without falling over. Adrenaline has killed most of the buzz and he’s just going to have to be careful.

John speeds back through the gathering dusk to the Lodge, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. When he makes it back the entire front of the house is a blaze of light, the spread of drive-illuminating lamps and dramatic floodlights that uplight the entire front of the house all on, giving the house a warm, inviting ambiance. John barely registers the other cars in the drive as he throws the front door open, but as soon as his eyes adjust to the brightness of the front room, he realizes there are three additional people there: an older woman, and a young man and woman, who are likely a couple by the way they are huddled close on the sofa, clutching each other’s hand.

“Ah, John, there you are,” Sherlock says, “Come sit down. You won’t mind recounting the entire story once again to my colleague Doctor Watson, will you? It will help me to hear it.”  John walks slowly into the room, the familiarity of the ritual wrapping around him like warm water, like a comfortable blanket. Sherlock’s dressed in a sharp black suit and pale blue shirt, and everything about him vibrates with a barely-suppressed energy.

John can feel that same energy starting to tingle in his fingertips.

They have a case.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It would be so much easier if Sherlock would look at him, he thinks, staring hard at Sherlock’s profile from the passenger seat. He wants to catch his eye and confront whatever it is that’s growing between them, shake it loose and test it. It’s more than he can bear, the spark and heat when they glance off of each other, the comfortable serenity when they’re together, and the low level of arousal that’s been burning in his stomach for weeks now is making him fight not to shift in his seat._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to Mydwynter for suffering through my moods with this.

To be honest, the tableau John walks into—quiet couple on the sofa, serious and somber DI in a chair next to them, and Sherlock, tall and energetic and pacing in front of the fireplace —fits perfectly with the Lodge and its high-beamed ceilings and dark, shadowy corners. All they need is a lugubrious butler, a candelabra, and a tray full of cocktails and they’d all be part of an Agatha Christie novel.

John sighs as he feels the familiar rhythm of a case settle into his bones.  Twenty-six days without has even stretched his own patience, and given what he was pondering in the car on the way over the distraction is incredibly welcome. As he drops his jacket on the coat rack he takes a surreptitious glance around the room. The people in his house look serious and drawn, and Sherlock’s pacing has all the hallmarks that his intellect has risen, alive and crackling, from its period of quiet contemplation.

“DI Akin and the Stewarts,” Sherlock says, and when he catches John’s eye his pacing falters for just a moment, a tiny stutter step that John can feel like a punch to the gut. God knows what Sherlock sees in his face, but John ruthlessly forces his mind to focus on the case at hand and crosses over to DI Akin. She stands as he approaches and holds out her hand. She’s tall, almost as tall as Sherlock, and her short blonde hair curls over her ears.

“Detective Inspector Wendy Akin, Doctor Watson. I’m sorry to meet you under such circumstances. I’d hoped to attend your writing lecture last year at the Police Federation Conference.”

John’s surprised, and rather pleased. “Oh, thanks. Not much to it, really, just—“

“Can we skip the niceties and get back to the case?” Sherlock cuts in, impatience marking every line of his body as he gestures toward the young couple on the sofa, who are following Sherlock’s pacing with wide eyes. John’s seen that look before and it stops him full in his tracks: the look of desperation, of hope, and John’s heart goes out to them.

“Of course,” he says and turns to the couple. “I’m John Watson.”

“Amita Stewart,” the young woman says quietly, one hand in a white-knuckled grip with that of her partner, the other rubbing a tissue between her fingers. She can’t be quite 30, John guesses, her dark hair unmarred by any grey strands. Her husband shifts next to her and suddenly stands, shoulders trembling, chin lifted.

“I can’t stand it,” he says. “Please, Doctor Watson, it’s nice to meet you, but we’re wasting time here.”

John nods, and places a calming hand on his arm. “I understand, and as soon as I learn what it is we’re doing, we’ll be on our way. Now. What’s your name?”

“Todd Stewart. I’m Maya’s father. I’m sorry, I just want to find her.” Todd sits back down and resumes holding Amita’s hand, and John retreats back to his desk and pulls out the chair and prepares to listen.

“Well, as you just heard, we’re dealing with a missing child,” DI Akin says, and lifts the tablet from her lap and starts tapping on it. “Maya Stewart, age 11. 131 centimetres, 24 kilograms. Here’s a picture,” she says as she turns her tablet around, showing a pretty, black-haired girl with light grey eyes and a sweet, serene smile. “She went missing yesterday evening, around 3pm. She’d come home from school, that much was clear as her bag was on the table, but when Amita arrived home after work at 4pm, Maya was no longer in the house. No ransom demands, no calls, no evidence of a break-in or struggle. It’s…it’s uncanny.”

Amita begins to sob quietly, prompting Todd to wrap an arm around her shoulders and whisper into her ear. “We do this every day,” Amita says brokenly. “It’s our routine. She comes home from school, starts her homework, and I come home at four in time to start dinner.  But she wasn’t home. I don’t understand.”

“You did this every day?” Sherlock says. “Every day, without fail?” Ah, there it is, the demanding snap in his voice that John wondered if he’d ever hear again.

“Yes, every day,” Todd says. “Unless she was sick, or something like that.”

“Routines,” Sherlock says sadly, and shakes his head. “Routines are patterns, and patterns can be worked out rather easily and used against you. I can’t stress enough how important it is to vary them often.” John stifles a sigh at the lecture, but the warmth of the familiar settles him, calms his nerves and keeps him focused on the immediate, the necessary. He’ll worry about other things later.

“But who would want to use anything against us?” Todd says, and stands up again, pacing in the small space between the sofa and the back wall of the great room. “We’re just…we’re just _people,_ we don’t have anything, no one’s asked us for anything, and we’re standing here telling the same damn story over and over…” He stops and slams his hand against the wall, making the picture frames rattle and dance.

Sherlock is so quick that he’s standing in front of Todd before John is half-way out of his chair. His voice is low, gentle, unintelligible from across the room and John is shocked as he watches Todd’s shoulders relax slightly and he sits back down to stare resolutely into the empty fireplace. Sherlock has never, not in all the years John’s known him, comforted a witness—at least, not for the sole purpose of comforting.

“Did anything happen in the last week or two that was out of your normal routine?” Sherlock asks, and Todd shakes his head at the same time his wife speaks.

“The morning before, Maya had been invited to a weekend party with some friends. They were going to Bristol. I…I didn’t want her to go. Maya was furious; she slammed out of the house that morning.” Amita looks down at her hands. “She thought I didn’t trust her to behave properly. But it wasn’t that, not at all. I just don’t particularly trust the mother,” she adds quietly.

“But Maya returned home from school that day as expected, yes?”

“Yes. She seemed fine, as if she’d forgotten all about it. Children that age usually do, though Maya does tend to remember more than most. She’s so brilliant in that way.”

John smiles at the note of pride in her voice.  “I’m sure she is. Now, when you got home, you said nothing looked out of the ordinary. Nothing was missing?”

The Stewarts frown in concentration. “No, well, I mean.” Todd sighs heavily. “I don’t even know if it’s anything, but that stack of laundry I left on her chair, it had all fallen over. And that yellow t-shirt she likes wasn’t there. I didn’t check and see if maybe she’d put it on that morning and took it off or anything,” he adds.

Sherlock’s gaze goes slightly unfocused for a moment, hands pressed together and forefingers touching his lips, before he suddenly claps his hands, then rubs them briskly. “We’ve done what we can from here, Detective Inspector. I’ll need to see the Stewart’s house. Now, in fact.” Sherlock strides for the front door and throws it open to walk into the drive, leaving the room silent and still behind him.

“He…he does that,” John says helplessly. “Shall we? Perhaps you could lead the way to the house, Detective Inspector Akin?” John shows the young Stewarts out, and just as DI Akin is about to follow, she turns back to John.

“I know his reputation,” she says lowly. “And I know he can be difficult to work with. But the Stewarts are desperate and every moment that passes could mean that child’s life, so I’m willing to do whatever he says and follow wherever he leads. But tell me, honestly. Can he find Maya?”

John glances out of the door to see Sherlock’s profile in the car, dim and shadowy in the artificial exterior light. He’s waiting, and every so often he glances through the windscreen as if willing John to hurry and join him. John can feel the tug of that unspoken connection and longs to follow.

“Find her? Oh yes,” John says, and he can feel the smile pulling on the corners of his mouth. “Of that, I have absolutely no doubt.”

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

When John pulls the door of the Rover closed, Sherlock is quiet and contemplative, his phone resting quietly on his lap and his gaze focused out of the window. It’s so oddly pensive it makes John’s shoulders tense, and he speaks into the silence of the car.

“So, how did they find us?” he asks, and starts the Rover and pulls out behind DI Akin’s car, following her lights along the road toward Eastbourne. “I didn’t ever put our address or anything on the blog, did you?”

Sherlock actually looks a little guilty. “I may have put in a word at the local nick,” he mutters, and sulks down into the collar of his jacket. “I didn’t think they’d actually have anything.”

“I see.”

“You think I should have turned them away?” Sherlock says, and he sounds slightly defensive. John tries not to bristle in return, because the conflict he can feel bubbling under the surface has the feel of something deeper, something bigger, and one wrong word could shatter it wide open.

“No, no, not at all. I’m glad you’re taking it. I am. It’s helpful.”

“Yes, well. It’s fairly simple, really, but it has some points of interest.”

“You mean you’ve already worked it out?” John asks, and brakes hard to avoid a badger crossing the road.

“Of course I have. Good Lord, John, it’s literally child’s play. Do give me some credit. My brain hasn’t stopped functioning since we moved out here.”

John watches DI Akin’s tail lights flash as she brakes and indicates a turn, and he follows after her into the side streets of Eastbourne. “Why haven’t you told them, then, that you’ve solved it? I know you’re bored, Sherlock, but even then you wouldn’t have been arsed to move for a case you could solve from the sofa.”

Sherlock shifts a little in his seat and turns to look out of the window. “It was faster if I found her myself,” he says.

John’s not sure he’s hearing him correctly. “Faster if you—“

“Yes, yes, God. It would mean her faster return if I went and retrieved her myself. I need to look at the house first before I can be certain, but just telling them meant they’d have to wait until someone else worked it out, and the Stewarts will be reassured that their daughter is safe and sound and with them much more quickly if I just come over here and do it myself. There. Happy?” Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest, and steadily refuses to meet John’s gaze.

John lets it go, knowing that sentiment can make Sherlock uneasy, a vulnerability he rarely acknowledges and tries to lock away, safe and protected. It doesn’t show itself often but it is there, a glimpse of a great heart behind a great brain. John resists the sudden urge to press a kiss to the frown lines above his wrinkled-up nose.

……………………………………………………………………………………

Sherlock Holmes on a case always takes up more space than he should, a dramatic slash of black and blue and cerulean set against the lilac backdrop of a little girl’s bedroom. John edges along the walls as Sherlock examines every single space from the ceiling to the floor, and John can’t miss the way the corner of his mouth twitches upward when he spots something obvious only to him.

Sherlock had been over the entire house, inch by agonizing inch, the Stewarts and DI Akin looking on with worried, pinched faces and downturned brows. John had tried to keep them occupied with tea and conversation about Maya, but he couldn’t stop the Stewarts from following Sherlock’s every move.  So he gave up and joined, watching them watch Sherlock, until Sherlock had gone into Maya’s room last, motioning for John to join him.

“It will be better if you’re here,” he says, and looks again at the wall next to Maya’s bed and then the ceiling, pulls his lockpicks from his pocket and runs his fingers along the edge where the two walls join.  Sherlock slides the lockpick into a hidden fissure into the wall, prods gently, and with a click the moulding swings back to reveal an opening a little more than a foot wide with an annoyed and scowling Maya behind it.

“Did you have to open it where they could see?” she complains as her parents exclaim with joy and relief as their daughter, safe and well and covered in dust, emerges from her hiding place. She huffs annoyance as her mother and father hug her and give her a good look-over. “I could get out whenever I wanted; I don’t know why you had to call the police.  I’m still mad you wouldn’t let me go to Bristol with Carolyn,” she says, then frowns and crosses her arms.

“Oh my God,” her mother says. “Darling, you can’t run off and hide just because we wouldn’t let you do something you wanted! Of course we called the police! We thought you’d been kidnapped!  I’m just so glad you’re safe.”

Maya at least appears slightly guilty about this revelation, and looks down at the floor. “I’m sorry,” she says at last.

Todd walks toward the narrow opening in the wall and pokes his head in. “I had no idea this was even here,” he says. “What is it?”

“Smugglers hole, most likely,” Sherlock says, and squirms inside. John takes his turn but the small space makes him feel slightly queasy, so he climbs back out and is content to just look from the doorway.  The hiding spot is narrow and cramped and musty, but Maya has added a small folding chair and a hanging torch, a pile of books and a small stool with a bottle of water on it.

Sherlock takes a few pictures. “The house was built before the War, and there was quite a trade in black market goods at that time. The previous owner likely created this to hide the loot, and your daughter figured out it was here, to her credit.”

“And you figured it out after her, having never once been here,” Todd says. “I’m… I’m overwhelmed, Mr. Holmes. I can’t thank you enough.”

Sherlock shrugs and brushes the dust from his jacket. “Simple, really.  The likelihood she’d left the house, even voluntarily, was low, and you’d mentioned she was missing just enough clothing for one day. I thought it likely she was hiding in the house, in a place you and your wife had no idea existed, and once I saw the shortened wall between her bedroom and the bathroom I knew for sure. It was simply a matter of finding the door lock, and there we are.” Sherlock stops and looks around. “Really, it’s not a difficult solution, you just had assumed from the start she’d been kidnapped. Capital mistake to theorize before one has data, you know.”

DI Akin shakes her head ruefully. “Indeed it is. I’ll take that to heart, Mr. Holmes. Now, you’ll need to put together a short statement for the file, if you don’t mind, and we can write it all up quickly here before you leave.” She turns toward the stairs and heads down. Amita gives her daughter another squeeze and gives her a stern look.

“Into the bath with you, young lady,” she says. “And we’ll talk about all of this tomorrow. Todd, why don’t you take Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson downstairs and get them a drink?”

Maya rolls her eyes and stalks off toward the bathroom with a relieved and patient Amita behind her. Todd smiles indulgently.

“She’ll either take over the world or burn it down, that one,” he says, turning to John and Sherlock. “Please, I’ve got a fantastic port downstairs, let me offer you a glass.”

John brightens. “That would be lovely, thank you,” he says, and Sherlock simply nods with uncharacteristic acquiescence and turns to follow Todd down the stairs. Before he can leave, John puts a hand on his shoulder.

“You didn’t have to do this, Sherlock. You could have just told them.”

Sherlock twitches a smile. “Yes, well. As I said in the car, it was faster if I found her hiding place. It might have taken them another day.”

John chuckles, Sherlock passing off his act of charity as simple expediency equal parts amusing and endearing. “I’ve seen you solve cases a hundred times before, but it still awes me, every time. You’re amazing, you know that.”

Sherlock looks at him then, eyes bright and shining and fond. “And I’ve heard you say it hundreds times, but I still wait to hear it, every time.” Sherlock reaches out, hesitant fingers touching the lapel of John’s coat and his eyes fixed on John’s collar. John holds his breath, heart fluttering in his chest, until Sherlock simply rubs the material of John’s coat between his fingers once, and then steps away.  “I hope I always will,” Sherlock adds, and turns and disappears from the room.

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

The ride back to the Lodge is as charged, if not more so, than the atmosphere in Maya’s bedroom earlier. John’s trying to relax, but even with a glass of port on top of the two beers and whiskey he’d had a couple of hours earlier he can feel his muscles twitch and tense.  Disparate thoughts chase each other, the certainty of his suspicions about Sherlock’s feelings, about his own, becoming more and more firm.

It would be so much easier if Sherlock would look at him, he thinks, staring hard at Sherlock’s profile from the passenger seat.  He wants to catch his eye and confront whatever it is that’s growing between them, shake it loose and test it. It’s more than he can bear, the spark and heat when they glance off of each other, the comfortable serenity when they’re together, and the low level of arousal that’s been burning in his stomach for weeks now is making him fight not to shift in his seat.

Sherlock isn’t biting, though, and drives, jaw tight and determined, all the way home without saying a word. They park the Rover and walk back up to the house, and John risks trying to place a gentle hand on the small of Sherlock’s back. Sherlock gracefully steps outside of his reach and continues walking. They stand side by side and hang their coats inside the back door, and John wants to scream from the forced normality of it.

“Sherlock—“ he starts, just as Sherlock says “Good night, John,” and  before John can recover Sherlock is off up the back stairs, taking them two at a time. John can hear his footsteps echo down the hall and a door slam—his bedroom door, most likely. John sinks down onto the steps and leans until he can gently knock his head against the wall, feeling like a complete fool for the clear and obvious brush-off he’s just been handed.

“Mixed signals, thy name is Sherlock Holmes,” he mutters, and knocks his head against the wall once more for good measure.

…………………………………………………………………….

Morning on the Downs usually comes quietly, birdsong and the hint of ocean waves pulling John gently, softly into another day. But this morning a crash and reverberating thud shakes John into instant consciousness. Eyes sticky and heart pounding, he leaps from bed and rushes downstairs, where a white haze greets him from the kitchen door. Sherlock is sprawled on the floor, covered in plaster dust from the wall, a cabinet in splintered pieces next to him and a screwdriver in his hand.

“Are you all right?” John says, and gingerly picks his way across the lino, littered with plaster bits and wood chips and God knows what else.

“Fine. The screws let loose a little sooner than I expected.”

John’s still-sleeping brain is having a bit of trouble catching up. “What on Earth are you doing?” he asks.

Sherlock sits up and rubs at his wrist. “Reno. New kitchen. You wanted to keep the range and not much else. Solid maple cabinetry, granite worktops.” He looks up at John from under his fringe, the dark curls frosted with dust. “They’re on order, should be here in a week.”

“You what?” John says stupidly, because now that he looks more closely the entire kitchen has been emptied into the butler’s pantry and the dining room, and Sherlock is still wearing his sky blue shirt and suit trousers from yesterday. “How long have you been at this?” John asks.

“All night,” Sherlock says, resting his forearms on his knees. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“And you decided to do this instead.”

Sherlock glances up, and his eyes are burning, intense, and the vulnerability makes John go completely still. “I… yes,” he says, finally. "You said you wanted my help."

The memory of last night— of revelations, tension and affection and Sherlock’s generosity—slots into place all at once and the warmth of certainty, of _rightness_ , propels John forward. He ignores Sherlock’s wide eyes and drops to his knees in the dust and the splinters and the bright morning light, hauls Sherlock in by the shirtfront and kisses him, deep and sure and perfect.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John kneels over Sherlock’s lap, cradles his magnificent skull in both hands, and presses kiss after kiss to his lips, the corners of his mouth, his cheeks. Sherlock’s lips are warm and soft, and John can feel an echo of his own self consciousness in Sherlock’s embrace.
> 
> “This is … this is new,” John says between kisses.
> 
> Sherlock nuzzles up under John’s jaw. “Yes,” he growls, and John goes weak, pliant, sinking into Sherlock’s lap.
> 
> “Not a bad thing, though, right?”
> 
> “Not at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're finished! 
> 
> I couldn't have done this without Mydwynter and Lacuna - they saved this story a hundred times over, and made sure I was doing my best work, no matter how much I complained about it, heh. 
> 
> And thank you to all of you who continued to read, who encouraged me to continue, and commented and kudosed and everything. I'd not done a write-and-post WIP before now, really, so this was a bit nerve-wracking for me.

John kneels over Sherlock’s lap, cradles his magnificent skull in both hands, and presses kiss after kiss to his lips, the corners of his mouth, his cheeks. Sherlock’s lips are warm and soft, and John can feel an echo of his own self consciousness in Sherlock’s embrace.

“This is … this is new,” John says between kisses.

Sherlock nuzzles up under John’s jaw. “Yes,” he growls, and John goes weak, pliant, sinking into Sherlock’s lap.

“Not a bad thing, though, right?”

“Not at all.”

“Because…oh, Christ…because we can stop,” John says, even as he shivers with the touch of Sherlock’s lips in the hollow of his throat, the collar of his tee shirt pulled down and taut against the back of his neck.

Sherlock flickers his tongue against John’s skin, hot and wet and causing a bloom of heat in John’s stomach. He tightens his hold on John for just a moment before pulling away.

“No,” Sherlock whispers “No. But I need to clean up …  I’m revolting right now, I’ve been up all night and …”

John kisses him again, then brushes a finger across a smudge of plaster on one high cheekbone. “Fine,” he says. “But only if I get to come with you.”

……………………………………………………………………..

Steam fills the bathroom as the geyser pours a gush of water into Sherlock’s enormous claw-foot bathtub, the wash of heat fogging the mirrors and leaving the tile a cold shock under John’s bare feet. The room is dim, the only light a diamond-paned prism from the window above the tub, and John admires each scattered sunbeam as it breaks and skims across Sherlock’s body. John finally gives into the temptation he fought down watching Sherlock sink into the bath a week ago, and presses kisses against Sherlock’s long, smooth back as Sherlock leans over to turn off the tap.

“Come on,” Sherlock says, and pulls John in with him. The tub is enormous, and John settles easily between Sherlock’s legs, his back against Sherlock’s chest. He’s acutely aware of Sherlock’s cock, half hard and nestled against the small of his back.

“This isn’t going to help you wash,” John says, and glides his hands down Sherlock’s thighs and over the bumps of his knees. “Though I’m not entirely sure I care at the moment.”

“No, you wouldn’t care,” Sherlock says, and catches the lobe of John’s ear in his teeth, before licking over the shell of it. “I’ve been thinking of getting you in here for weeks now.”

“Have you?” John says, and his voice is raspy, shaken, and he can feel himself growing harder under the water.

“Yes,” Sherlock says quietly, and the shift in tone to something more serious makes John turn slightly. Sherlock’s cheeks are flushed, hair dark-tipped with water and curling over his forehead, and his eyes look grey and thoughtful. “I’d pass by your room and you’d be there, curled up in the window seat and watching the Downs. You looked so familiar, John, but yet not; almost something new. And then you’d be working around the house—I couldn’t stop watching you.” Sherlock nestles his chin over John’s shoulder as John laces their fingers together. “Then that day, with the bees—you’d never looked at me that way before, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

“Was I that obvious?”

“Mm. No, not as such. But I confess I had a few sleepless nights worrying that I’d somehow been obvious myself, that the years I’d spent ignoring any attraction I felt for you had finally been too many.”

John lifts Sherlock’s hand to his lips and kisses it softly. He tastes of warm water and salt, the skin over his knuckles smooth under John’s mouth. “Years, is it?” Sherlock snorts. “I wonder, though— I mean, fifteen years is a hell of a long time. I knew when I met you I found you attractive, but I pushed that aside when it was clear the work came first. It became first for me, as well. I’ve been ignoring how I feel so long it had become unconscious habit. But then, something ...” John sighs. “I’m not sure what happened, but I can’t stop thinking about it either.”

“Perhaps because we no longer had the work to distract us,” Sherlock says, and slides his palms down John’s stomach until they rest in the crease of John’s groin. “Is it better that we know now, or never?”

John pushes up into Sherlock’s hands, feels the warm wash of water against his cock, against his balls as Sherlock grips his waist and rolls his hips against John’s back. Sherlock’s fully hard now and John isn’t far behind him, and when Sherlock grinds against him again, cock sliding against John’s wet skin, the water slides in a long wave down the surface and crests over the side.

“Damn, we shouldn’t— The water—,” John pants, but he can’t make himself stop, not when Sherlock’s long fingers are now stroking with long pulls on his cock, the other hand rolling John’s balls, and John rocks into the sensation as Sherlock ruts against his back. The rhythmic sound of the water against the side of the tub and hitting the floor with a splash is a counterpoint to John’s sighs and Sherlock’s low moans, and Sherlock’s maddening, brilliant hands work at John’s body until they pull him into an orgasm so bone-deep, so heart-achingly full that John feels like his soul has been turned inside out.

John shudders hard, his body taut under Sherlock’s hands for a moment that seems suspended, time stretching for a perfect, shining eternity before he collapses, spent, against Sherlock’s chest.

“Beautiful,” Sherlock whispers, and John forces his eyes open, turns over between Sherlock’s knees and kisses Sherlock thoroughly, with as much skill and grace as he can manage half-weak with post-orgasmic lassitude and heat. The water sloshes between them as John squirms and shifts until he straddles Sherlock again, his knees  shoved between Sherlock’s thighs and the sides of the tub,  one hand clutched in Sherlock’s wet curls and the other stroking lightly across the hard pebble of Sherlock’s nipple. His chest is firm, and smooth, and John revels in the feel of Sherlock’s skin under his fingertips.

“Fuck, God. Do that again,” Sherlock says, and drops his head back to rest on the edge of the tub. John grins, tweaks the other nipple, and almost slips backward with the force of Sherlock’s response.

“Let’s see what other sorts of things you like, then,” John murmurs in his ear, Sherlock’s wet hair tickling the bridge of his nose. “It’s had to have been a while, right? Unless you’ve been shagging random men under my nose and I didn’t know about it.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath and thrusts his hips under John’s lap, cock sliding between John’s arsecheeks and warm water swirling against the sensitive skin. “No, not in years. If it wasn’t you it was no one. Ohhh, fuck. Please, John, _more_.”

John slides back onto Sherlock’s thighs until he can get Sherlock’s cock in his hand. There’s plenty of time later for more intimate exploration, but now is for passion, for the sight of Sherlock Holmes writhing under him, uninhibited, wanting, and wanting _John._   He circles the head of Sherlock’s cock with his fingers, testing the soft skin at the slit. Sherlock arches a bit at that, so John does it again, heart hammering in his chest.  His thumb dips to massage the underside of the head, and he can feel the ghost of Sherlock’s pulse as an echo of his own. It’s a bit cramped, a bit too warm but utterly glorious, and the naked passion in Sherlock’s eyes has John held fast in a feedback loop of pleasure given and received.

The air is even more humid as the sun gains strength and shines through the window, glancing off of the tiled walls and giving the room a golden glow. Sherlock’s flushed face as his orgasm gathers is so beautiful, so touchable, that John can’t help but press his cheek against Sherlock’s own as he strokes him, whispering quiet words of beauty, of declaration, of care and assurance. When Sherlock finally comes, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open on a silent cry, John kisses his cheek, his nose, his chin, and finally his throat, glancing down with satisfaction as the floor shimmers a watery reflection of their silhouettes back at him.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Later, they wash, touch, kiss and smile through a refilled bath, and John mops up the floor before he and Sherlock settle under the sheets in Sherlock’s big four-poster bed. Sherlock is curled on his side and halfway over John’s chest, one leg over John’s knees.  John runs his fingers lightly over Sherlock’s shoulder, more content and relaxed than he has been in ages. It feels oddly comfortable, the two of them here like this, as if John’s life had been leading him to exactly this place and time without his conscious participation. But regardless of how he got here, the Lodge is his home—their home—and now more than ever, a place of future possibilities and the start of something exhilarating and new.

He tries to settle his body more comfortably under Sherlock’s without jarring him. He’s not really tired but Sherlock is heavy-lidded and sated, and his eyes finally flutter closed as if it were too much for his body to take.

“Please stay,” he says, and yawns.

John squeezes his shoulder and thinks about Sherlock’s surprising revelation— _if it wasn’t you it was no one_ —and says, “Of course. Where do you imagine I would go, after all this time?”

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

John must drift off anyway, because when he is next aware, Sherlock is awake and tracing patterns on John’s stomach with his tongue.

“Oh hell,” John says, sucking in a breath.

“All right?” Sherlock says, glancing up through his eyelashes with a devilish smirk.

John shivers once, then relaxes back against the pillows. “Definitely all right. What time is it?”

Sherlock huffs and digs his fingers into John’s ribcage and tickles until John squirms and laughs. Who knew Sherlock would be playful in bed?

“If you care what time it is, I’m not doing enough to distract you,” Sherlock says, and slides lower to press a kiss to the hollow of John’s hip. The glow of pleasure ramps up in an instant to a fire of need, and John pulls Sherlock up by the armpits until he’s in kissing range. It’s lovely, the two of them pressed chest to knees in Sherlock’s bed, and John sinks into the kiss for a few long, toe-curling moments until he breaks the kiss to get a shoulder under Sherlock’s chest and use the leverage to flip Sherlock onto his back and straddle him.

“You said something earlier about it being years since you last were with someone,” John says, and slowly glides his hands up Sherlock’s forearms until he pins his wrists to the bed next to his head. Sherlock looks half-way between amused and aroused, and John is relishing the rasp of Sherlock’s legs under his arse and against his thighs.

“About eight years, yes,” Sherlock says and nods with mock seriousness. “A weekend with a physicist named Paul.”

“Oh, Paul, was it?” John says, fingers pausing on Sherlock’s breastbone.  “I don’t remember a…hang on, I remember that weekend! I thought you were _drunk_ when you got home!”

“I was. Drunk and exhausted and shagged out.”

John growls and leans forward, bracing his weight heavily on Sherlock’s wrists, and lowers his head until his lips are brushing Sherlock’s mouth. “I’m going to make you forget all about Paul,” John growls, and nips Sherlock’s lower lip, making Sherlock gasp into his mouth. “You’re going to forget about everything but how I feel around you, inside you, over you.” John ruts gently, his cock catching and sliding against Sherlock’s, and presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss over Sherlock’s breastbone.

Sherlock gasps and smiles, and squirms until John releases his hands so he can grasp John’s thighs instead. He lifts his hips into John’s thrusts and closes his eyes, throws his head back, and the half-laughing grin on his face makes John’s heart clench to see it.

“We waited too long,” John gasps as they rock together, the duvet and the sheets rucking up around their legs and tangling around Sherlock’s feet. Sherlock impatiently kicks at them until nothing is left but his pale grey sheet, his black hair a dark smudge against the pillow.

“But you’re here with me now. You came with me, and you’re here now,” Sherlock says and arches against him, his motions desperate and seeking. John kisses him again, teases the corner of his mouth and the edge his jaw where his skin is rough with the beginnings of stubble. John’s heart stutters and desire arcs electric under his skin at the touch.

“I am, yes, oh Christ that feels amazing.” John can feel his orgasm starting to coalesce, a warm, heavy weight in his groin.  It’s too soon, too early for John’s satisfaction, so John settles his body by lavishing attention on beat of Sherlock’s pulse in his throat, focusing on the skin fluttering under his tongue, and smirks with smug satisfaction as it quickens.

That neck of his. John always had noticed it, the way his head would tilt sometimes when he was mulling over evidence, exposing the long white line of it under a whorl of dark curls; the soft vulnerability of his nape. He always seemed so _aware_ of it, conscious enough of his physical appeal that he would use it to devastating effect on witnesses and suspects alike. John knew this but always tried to keep himself from thinking about it, about how certain he was that Sherlock would melt at the first touch of lips on the back of his neck. But anything that John’s hesitant thoughts had ever brushed up against pale in comparison with this, the reality of knowing someone so intimately that he feels instinct guiding him in every touch, every brush of his fingers over Sherlock’s heated skin.

Sherlock seems to feel the same way, his hands firm on John’s hips, the trace of his thumbs in the crease of John’s groin confident and sure.  Their bodies rock together again, a push-pull of skin on skin, not nearly as slick as it should be but enough, the pressure is very nearly enough as it is. John reaches down and grips them both and lets the rhythm build until he sees Sherlock’s expression go unfocussed and feels him arch and shudder beneath his body. Sympathetic pleasure beats hard in John’s own chest and he follows quickly, gasping against Sherlock’s neck. He feels overwhelmed, shaken to the core, and he realizes in amazement that this is the new shape their love has taken; the slow evolution of a lifetime of devotion.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Later that evening John returns from a quick run to the shops to find Sherlock sitting in the garden, curled up in an old chair he must have found somewhere. He’s finally dressed, wearing old jeans and a tee shirt, and his hair is still a frizzed out mess from sex and sleep and a hasty shower. He looks younger and somehow vulnerable, and John watches him for a moment with his heart thumping hard, almost painfully so, when he remembers the feel of that body under his not more than three hours ago.

Sherlock doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge John’s presence.  So John goes back into the house, puts the shopping away, and comes back out to find Sherlock staring at his beehives meditatively.  John insinuates himself into Sherlock’s lap by dint of not taking no for an answer and sighs, content.

Sherlock doesn’t speak for a moment, but finally looks at him, and John’s heart sinks with the worry he can see plainly etched on Sherlock’s face.

“Come on, then, out with it,” John says.

Sherlock opens his mouth for a moment, pauses, then closes it. He picks up John’s hand from where it’s resting on his chest and runs his fingers along John’s knuckles, around the nails, into the soft web of skin between.

“I meant what I said,” Sherlock starts. “Paul was an isolated incident. A test. I knew after that weekend that if it wasn’t you, it would be no one. And now it is, and I feel… I feel regret—not for what we did, not at all, but for the time lost.”

“Sherlock, I think we probably both hold some blame on that front. We had each other, and we had the work; it was enough. It felt like enough, it really did. I don’t regret one single day I’ve spent with you. Well, maybe a few, but those generally involved disgusting experiments.”

Sherlock chuckles, and he sounds relieved. “There were quite a few, weren’t there? Perhaps I should do a few more forensics investigations—“

“Absolutely not,” John says, and stops Sherlock’s planning with a kiss, a slow, lingering touch of mouths that leaves John fuzzy with happiness. He lies back against Sherlock’s chest and thinks a moment. “Perhaps we needed the maturity of our declining years to let this happen.”

“Speak for yourself,” Sherlock says, and catches John’s shoulder in a playful bite. “I happen to think my experience has only added to my charms. I know yours has,” he adds, and tries to suck on John’s neck.

John tries to squirm away, but Sherlock holds him fast around the waist. “Oh my God, if you leave a hickey on me Sherlock Holmes— I swear you are such a child—“ John stops when he hears a buzzing noise near his ear, and tries to brush the interested bee away from his face. “Now the bees have found us, you and your ridiculous shampoo. We should go inside before we get a repeat performance of last week.”

“Shhhh,” Sherlock says. “Hold still.”

“I don’t want to—“

“Watch,” Sherlock says again, and John fights his instincts to flee. He watches the bees returning back to the hive in the late afternoon light, flying slowly, laden with nectar and pollen.  Sherlock holds out his hand, and John can see he has a small piece of Colette’s apple cake on his palm, perched on a crumpled napkin. John tenses, waiting, and sure enough, a honeybee lands on the cake, prodding at it with her mouthparts. They both stay absolutely still, barely breathing as the bee flicks her tongue over the surface.

“Wait quietly, carefully, and patiently, and you can handle even the most frightening and seemingly incomprehensible of creatures,” Sherlock whispers. “Charge in recklessly, carelessly, and you’ll be sure to be stung.”

John relaxes, watching the bee until she has enough and flies back to the hive. The temperature is starting to drop with the late-fading sun and the wind picks up, bringing a hint of the sea with it, but John is warm enough with Sherlock beside him. The forecast is for rain the day after tomorrow, so perhaps he’ll have another look at the roof before it does. The lights from the Lodge are beginning to cast shadows in the garden, and John sighs, content, ready for what tomorrow may bring.

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for Through The Clouds](https://archiveofourown.org/works/844378) by [moonblossom graphics (moonblossom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom%20graphics)
  * [Mum's Lodgers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/869905) by [mintwitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintwitch/pseuds/mintwitch)




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